How to Solve a Slasher Flick in Three Sequels
by PippinStrange
Summary: Everything you love about Wes Craven's Scream Quadrilogy comes to life in the Psych universe. When grisly murders occur with strange resemblance to the Scream movies, Shawn and the gang must survive not one, but four comedic slasher films to uncover the killer. Rated T for language, and graphic violence.
1. The Iconic Opening

**How to Solve a Slasher Flick in Three Sequels **

**By Pippin Strange**

* * *

**Summary: Everything you love about Wes Craven's Scream Quadrilogy comes to life in the Psych universe. When grisly murders occur with strange resemblance to the Scream movies, Shawn and the gang must survive not one, but four comedic slasher films to uncover the killer. Rated T for language, and graphic violence.**

* * *

**Warning: Contains spoilers for all four Scream movies.**

* * *

_Chapter One_

_The Iconic Opening_

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A sloping lawn led up to a Victorian home, hidden from the road by a hedge and stately oak trees lining a long, winding gravel driveway. An ornate sign by the gate read _Oak Grove Bed & Breakfast. _

Night had fallen sleepily, and the automatic ground lights began to flick on like fireflies in the bushes.

Detective Juliet O'Hara, dressed sharply in a work pantsuit, checked her text messages again. She was chuckling slightly at the contents, with a slight eye roll.

_341 Alpaca Drive – Oak Grove Bed and Breakfast, 8 pm. Pack for two nights—I've just become vice president of a staged protest known as Occupy Juliet's Weekend. Don't bring any work with you. Xoxo, le boyfriend. PS: Clothes optional. _

After parking in the gravel space between the house and the open-sided gazebo, she knocked on the front door bookended by stained glass panels. The manager, a frail elderly woman, opened up the creaking door and beamed at her from behind a giant pair of bifocal glasses. "Hello, hello," she said, "You must be Miss O'Hara! Come in, come in."

"I know it's late, I'm very sorry," Juliet said quickly. "I was sort of surprised."

The elderly woman chuckled and motioned her in, shutting the door behind them. Juliet took in her surroundings quickly—an open entry, a stairwell to the bedrooms, a parlor to the left, a kitchen and dining room to the right, and a gorgeous crystal chandelier hanging overhead. She needed to know where the exits were—force of habit.

"Don't worry," said the woman, "He warned us you'd be working late. Here's your key, my dear, you are in room 8, up the stairs, second door on the right after the bathroom. I'm Mrs. Mather, I'm the owner of the facility."

"Thank-you, Mrs. Mather," Juliet replied, feeling at ease.

"Now that we've got that out of the way, you can call me Marge. All my regulars do."

"Thank-you, Marge," Juliet accepted the key and signed the guestbook, noticing that there were not any guests signed in except for her boyfriend's childlike scrawl. _Good. _The less people around, the less likely they'd stumble onto a case and start working instead of vacationing.

"Would you like a cup of tea before I retire, my dear?" asked Marge.

"I'll be fine, thank-you," Juliet smiled at her. "You have a beautiful home."

"Oh, thank-you, sweet heart. My husband and I were always very proud of this place. There's a whole photo album of historical photos of the renovations in the parlor. You may look at them if you like! Make yourself at home, oh," Marge tapped her head. "My memory is not the best. Breakfast is served at 8:30 am, but the kitchen is open for your use from noon till midnight, if you've brought your own meals to prepare."

Juliet shouldered her bag. "I'll see you at breakfast, then."

"Perfect. Sleep tight! I think I've stalled you long enough," she winked and proceeded down the hall, to the master bedroom under the stairs.

"Goodnight, Marge," Juliet smiled. It was a perfect place. Warm, homey, and so far removed from the busy police-detective life that she felt she could kick off her shoes and truly relax for the first time in weeks.

She went up the carpeted stairs, one hand on the dark, cherry wood railing. The walls were covered in emerald fleur-de-lis wallpaper and romanticism paintings. She peaked into the bathroom at the top of the stairs and saw an amazingly large claw-foot tub. _I can't wait for a soak in that, _she thought wistfully.

Room 8 left her breathless. She unlocked the door with her key and stepped into a room that sighed with wealth and comfort. The walls were papered in gold and champagne colors. The four-poster bed was so tall it needed tiny stairs on either side. The scarlet drapes hanging from the bed matched the curtains on the window. There were antique lamps, a black wardrobe, and a tiny bathroom with a gilded mirror.

Furthermore, everything was decorated with rose petals, and the ravaged thorny stems were haphazardly stuffed into the tiny wastebasket by the door. A bottle of wine sat between two glasses on the end table beneath the wide window, which looked out over a vineyard under the moonlight.

There was a small paper bag on the bed. She opened it to find two packages of microwave popcorn and a post-in note that read;

_Sup, gorgeous. If you don't mind, these popcorn kernels need to be popped. I entrust this mission to you while I am currently rushing back from the nearest redbox. The dvds I wanted to bring managed to not make it into any of my luggage. I'll be there in fiveish minutes. I love you. –le boyfriend_

It was just like him to forget the movies, but she smiled anyway. It was so thoughtful and romantic—all of it. She just hoped they could truly leave work behind and drink in each other's company.

_Plus_, she thought, _if he's not here yet I have some time to freshen up._

She changed into a comfortable white T-shirt that hugged her curves and traded her work-skirt for a pair of black shorts that were _way _too short but far too comfortable to leave behind. She slipped on a turquoise blue cardigan, leaving it unbuttoned. When she glanced in the mirror she thought she pulled off a strange True Blood, Anna Paquin kind-of look.

Her boyfriend would love that she just made that reference.

She grabbed the popcorn and slipped the key-bracelet around her wrist, tucking her cellphone into her bra (why are short shorts so anti-pocket?!) and made her way back down the stairs. The old Victorian was only slightly creepy without anyone awake and the landing lights turned down to dim, but she was grateful for the solitude.

Juliet went into the kitchen and tore open the plastic, put the bag into the microwave, and punched in two-and-a-half-minutes. There are those who like to put them in for three, and try to catch them before they burn. She preferred a minimum amount, and then added a few seconds until they were perfect. That's who she was—with everything—a _proceed with caution _kind of girl—unless she was sharing her opinions. Opinions did not come with caution. Lassiter, her partner, knew that better than anyone. He frequently reminded her that often her opinion wasn't welcome.

Juliet was sure that if it ever came down to it, Lassiter was probably the type to burn a few bags of popcorn before realizing you can't just nuke something at maximum and hope for good results. It's a science. And that nugget of advice could apply to his interrogation skills, too.

Her cellphone buzzed against her chest, startling her. She dug out her phone and saw that the caller ID was none other than her absent boyfriend.

_Incoming call_

_Shawn Spencer_

_Accept._

"Hello," Juliet greeted, trying to disguise how excited she was to see his face. "And where might you be?"

"Hello," replied a voice. It was not Shawn's voice—more computerized, a little too suave, and a deeper pitch. Clearly one of his many questionably obtained apps.

"Hello," Juliet repeated.

"Who is this?" said the voice.

"Funny. Am I supposed to guess who you're doing?" Juliet wasn't quite as quick with the movie trivia, but if Shawn was doing one of his impressions, he'd want her to play along. "Is it… the movie trailer guy?"

"What number is this?" said the voice.

"Is it a line from a movie? Because it's familiar," Juliet answered. "Say another one."

"I'm sorry, I guess I dialed the wrong number," said the voice.

"I know this, I know I've heard it," Juliet racked her brain. "Can I cheat and call Gus for the answer?"

"Don't hang up on me," the voice sounded menacing. Juliet frowned.

"Okay, Shawn, I give up," she said tiredly. "What's with the voice? It's a bad mix between sexy and scary. A lose-lose."

"Why don't you want to talk to me?"

"Of course I want to talk to you. In person."

"What's that noise?"

"What—what noise?" The popcorn was popping, but he knew about that… "It's the popcorn you wanted me to make, you dork."

"I only eat popcorn at the movies."

"Let me guess… you can't find a redbox."

"What's your favorite scary movie?"

That rung a bell. Juliet sighed. "This is one of those soundboards, isn't it? I've heard this one before. I think. I'm done, Shawn. Come on. I clearly lack the trivia prowess to play along with this one. I don't usually recite entire movie scenes like you and Gus can."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Is this a test?" Juliet was starting to grow annoyed with him. Sure, this was typical Shawn-ness. But usually it was in person, not over the phone, and she could snap _"Shawn!" _and he'd say, "Oh, sorry Jules," and then he'd _get to the point. _"Maybe," she responded with a sigh. "Depends on how the rest of the night goes!"

"I want to ask you out."

"Are you losing faith in your own cryptic texts and rose petal extravaganzas? They speak for themselves, you know."

"Why don't you tell me your name?"

"Shawn—why are you asking me?"

"Because I want to know who I'm looking at."

Juliet felt a cold shudder suddenly wash through her whole body. This wasn't Shawn. It couldn't be. He knew she was a little sensitive to pranks after the Yin-Yang nightmare—but to be watching her, secretly, and doing a creepy voice—that just didn't scream _Shawn. _

She felt something wrong in her gut for the first time that evening. It twisted in her stomach as she turned and faced the French doors. It was pitch black outside. All she could see was her own reflection and a mirror image of the kitchen behind her.

Suddenly, the microwave beeped. She jumped slightly. It beeped twice more and fell silent. Two more kernels _popped _half-heartedly.

"What did you say?" she asked, very slowly.

"I want to know who I'm talking to," the voice corrected smoothly.

"What are you doing with Shawn's phone?" Juliet said, very evenly. There was a simple explanation for this. There had to be.

"I just want to talk."

"Then talk."

"Are you getting scared?"

"Shawn—this isn't funny anymore—listen—"

"NO, YOU LISTEN, YOU LITTLE BITCH. CALL ME SHAWN ONE MORE TIME AND I'LL GUT YOU LIKE A FISH, UNDERSTAND?"

Silence. A moth hit the window, wanting to come into the light.

"You're messing with the _wrong_ bitch," Juliet replied, stone-faced. She hadn't brought any work with her for the weekend retreat—work, as usual, followed, stalked, and watched for an opportunity to reappear. She was prepared. "You're calling from my boyfriend's phone. I'd like to know how you obtained it." She walked stiffly out of the kitchen.

"It came to me in a dream," replied the voice all too easily.

She was up the stairs at a run.

"Don't tire yourself," taunted the voice—either he was watching her from the front windows, or her heard her breathing as she changed pace. It had to be the second—it would have taken far too long to run from the French patio doors to the front from the outside, and then, the stained glass would prove an issue. "We've got plenty of time to play."

"What do you want?" Juliet was in her room, unzipping her purse. Her firearm was out, fitting cold and comfortable in her hand. The empty holster went around her shoulder.

"To see what your insides look like."

She tucked the phone between her chin and shoulder as she checked to make sure it was loaded. She turned the safety off. "That's a strange thing to say," she said, buying herself time as she moved out the room and went to the hall. "I'd like to know where Shawn is."

"Oh—you want to talk to Shawn? Here he is," there was a strange shuffle. All Juliet could hear was breathing—obscure, muffled sounds that didn't sound right. She went down the stairs at a run.

Her heart nearly stopped when there was a _ripping _sound, like duct tape.

"Jules," said a hoarse voice. _That's him. _Then there was a mumbled cry and the sound of the phone being moved a second time. Someone had Shawn, and this _someone _was nearby.

"Don't hurt him, let's talk," Juliet said calmly. She went to the door under the stairs and knocked sharply. "I'd like to hear what you have to say to me."

"That's cute," taunted the voice, "Trying to play _negotiator_. You must really like this guy—I can't help but feel the whole hostage thing is out of your league."

"Tell me what you want," Juliet demanded, trying not to lose her patience.

The door cracked open, and Marge's tired, glasses-less eyes peered out with terror. "Are you trying to rob me?" she whispered in horror at the sight of Juliet's gun.

"I want you to step away from the landlady and play my game," said the voice, menacing and a shade darker than before. This was a real threat.

Juliet pressed the phone briefly to her stomach to try and muffle her voice. "I'm a detective," she said quickly, "I need you to call the police, send them here. Tell them it is Juliet O'Hara."

"Oh—my god—yes, dear," Marge nodded with a panicked expression and quickly shut the door in her face as Juliet whipped the phone back to her ear. "Okay, I'm backing away from the landlady," she said quietly, turning and walking back into the kitchen. She smacked the lights with her elbow, and the kitchen was flooded with instant darkness. It took her eyes a moment to adjust.

"Aw," said the voice, deadly. "I can't see you anymore."

She was panting now, worry throbbing in her mind as she took in her new surroundings. The moonlight was weak, but enough to give her an idea of the immediate outdoors. Outside of the French doors, there was a wide patio, with a few deck chairs. Down three steps and a wide, green lawn led to the gazebo and the gravel strip that Juliet had parked at.

There was movement at the edge of the porch, just beyond her vantage point. She'd have to step out from behind the counter to see clearer, but she felt uncomfortable about being so exposed. But if it was Shawn…

"Where are you?" Juliet asked.

"Why don't you turn on the porch light?" the voice requested.

"What if I don't?"

"_He dies_."

Juliet was at the French door in a blink. _Hang on, Shawn, _she thought, turning on the porch light.

It illuminated the porch in a yellow glow, and just beyond the steps, partially shrouded by what she thought was empty deck chairs—was Shawn.

He was bound and gagged by rope, with a square of duct tape across his mouth. There was blood trailing down the side of his face from a head wound, and strange splatters of blood across his light blue shirt that did not seem to originate from anywhere. His eyes were blinking back tears, knowing that Juliet was just beyond the darkness of the door. He was struggling to free his wrists, pulled behind the back of the chair.

Juliet instinctively began to press the door handle down with her elbow.

"Don't," said the voice on the phone simply.

"Or what?"

"You'll get to watch me spill his entrails on the ground."

Juliet shivered, unable to tear her eyes from Shawn's. His were pleading and flicking from left—to—

Juliet realized he was motioning to something. He kept looking to her right, his left, towards the edge of the patio that wrapped around the front of the house. It could mean two things—one, the man on the phone was standing just out of her sight on the porch. Two, the man was near the front of the house, and she was in the clear.

"Tell me what you want," Juliet repeated. "Clearly, we haven't got all night to play your game."

"Answer a question for me, and your boyfriend goes free."

"Then ask."

"Which door am I at?"

"What?"

"WHICH DOOR AM I AT?" the voice snarled. "THERE ARE TWO, A FRONT AND A BACK. IF YOU GUESS CORRECTLY, HE LIVES."

Juliet didn't have to see whichever movie this guy was recreating. The answer was simple. He wasn't at the front door. He would have to be near Shawn to kill him. He was hiding on the porch.

She stalled for time. "Give me a moment," she said, "I need to think… let me think…" she didn't have to fake the tremor of terror in her voice. She slowly used the hand that held her phone to press down on the door handle—just enough to unlatch it. Not enough to open.

"FRONT, OR THE BACK?" the voice repeated.

"Give me a second, I'm looking through the front windows," Juliet lied, ramming the door with her shoulder and jumping onto the porch, gun cocked and aiming for a figure in a black cloak standing behind a potted plant.

"POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPON!"

The figure dropped something—Shawn's phone.

It was on her before she could properly react. She fired instinctively, but her aim was wide as she ducked under the slash of a long, gruesome-looking kitchen knife. The figure was wearing a black cloak and a long-chinned, white ghost mask from any Halloween costume selection. But he wasn't just waving around a knife for a scare tactic—the thrust was deliberately aimed for her heart, which she sidestepped.

The figure had a six-foot (or more) frame of lean muscle. She thought she smelled cologne as she leapt backward out of his knife's reach, firing a second shot.

The figure stepped back with a thick grunt, roaring with surprise when he realized she had clipped him in the shoulder. He dropped his knife and shot off down the porch, the black stringy fabric trailing off behind him.

_Pursue. Shawn. Pursue. Shawn. Pursue._

Juliet hesitated, firing another two shots after the fleeing figure. There was a _thnk _sound, and a yell full of rage and pain. She had hit him twice. He wasn't going far. She could get to Shawn.

The local police would arrive first. Then they would contact her department. Lassiter wouldn't be far behind.

She didn't want to pursue the figure and leave Shawn helplessly tied to a chair. What if it wasn't working alone?

Juliet tried to remember how to breathe as she stumbled down the porch steps, tucking her gun in the holster and dropping to her knees beside Shawn's chair. Shawn greeted her with a muffled groan.

"It's going to be okay, Shawn," she whispered, tugging at the edge of the duct tape. "Here we go…" she ripped off the tape, and he gasped, taking in a deep lung-full of air.

"Are you okay? Jules? Are you okay?" he asked in a rush. His voice sounded hoarse. "Did he hurt you?"

"I'm okay," Juliet set to work on his wrists. "Just hold on. I'm going to get this off. We'll go inside where it's safe."

"Two things," Shawn let out an unashamed sob. "First, I am so, so sorry. Our weekend is officially ruined. Two, salt water and duct tape is the itchiest combination in the history of itches, second only to the lethal combination of a burlap weave on bare skin."

"Shhh," Juliet jerked the rope off his wrists and let them fall to the ground. She slipped off her blue sweater and wadded it up, pulling Shawn's hands gently to the front and pushing her sweater into his hands. "Hold this to your head," she instructed firmly. "How long have you been bleeding?"

"I don't know—an hour? Give or take? Preferably take. Take away. Grade-school lingo for subtraction."

Juliet made quick work of the rope around his ankles.

"Did you get him?" Shawn asked hazily.

"I did. Twice. He won't get far."

"He didn't see that coming. Good. That's not how the movie goes. This was supposed to end with you strung up into a tree. This will throw him off."

Juliet looked up at him with horror as she grasped his elbows and helped him stand shakily to his feet. "I was right," she said slowly, supporting his weight as they returned up the porch. "This was movie-related."

"You didn't recognize it?" Shawn stumbled up the steps woozily. "It's Scream. The Wes Craven movie. I was Steve and you were Casey. Which would make Gus and Lassie… nobody, actually. Except maybe the parents who come home and find us dissected. Like high school biology frogs."

"Shawn," Juliet hissed, opening the door and pushing him inside. She shut and locked the door behind them, and then found a button beneath the porch light. When she hit it, a curtain on either side whirred and slid into place, shielding them from further spying.

Shawn dropped suddenly, forcing Juliet to catch him under the arms and lower him to the floor. Better to make someone comfortable than to try and prevent their falling.

"MRS. MATHER!" Juliet shouted. "HELP ME!" She looked into the entry off the kitchen, where her bedroom door stood ajar under the stairs.

_Oh no, _Juliet thought, another gut feeling telling her that this wasn't over yet. "Shawn," she said to her boyfriend, who was barely conscious. "Breathe for me, okay? In, and out. In, and out."

"I'm… not being… asphyxiated," Shawn mumbled.

"I know. But I want you to stay awake for me. I need to find a first-aid kit." She stood up and glanced around the kitchen, finding a small night-light over the stove top. She switched it on, and began to look into all the cupboards and drawers.

"The most underrated creepy song in the history of creepy songs is that 'Stay awake' song from Mary Poppins," Shawn muttered.

"Why don't you sing it?" Juliet exclaimed.

"Because it's creepy. I've had enough creepy for one night."

Juliet slipped out of the kitchen, peaking through Marge's bedroom door. It was empty. Where had she gone? Was she in on it somehow? _What if she hadn't called the cops?!_

Juliet dialed Lassiter. He answered on the first ring. "I'm on my way," he said gruffly, without even waiting for her voice.

"Then Mrs. Mather called the police, then?" She walked back to the kitchen to find Shawn humming loudly. She continued her search for a first aid kit.

"Yeah, and they called me. You're out of my jurisdiction, otherwise, they might have called me sooner."

"I think I hear sirens," Juliet grabbed a small towel and replaced her now bloodied sweater with it, pressing it to Shawn's head. He winced and tried not to instinctively pull away, putting his hand over Juliet's, drawing strength from her firm touch.

"Yeah, and I'm five minutes behind them. Luckily I wasn't downtown, it would have taken longer. You okay?"

"I'm okay. Shawn isn't."

"EMT's coming too. What happened?"

"It… it feels like a Yin-Yang knock off."

"Christ."

"We're looking for a man, six-foot something, wearing a Halloween ghost-mask costume—black cloak, military boots, black jeans—I hit him twice."

"He got away."

"I had to let him go. Shawn…"

"I get it. Okay. But we're looking for a man who has been shot twice—good work, O'Hara. I'll get this information to the others."

"I can't find Mrs. Mather. Sometime between her call and now, she has left her bedroom."

The sirens were growing louder.

"I'm a minute away," Lassiter said, his voice creaky with worry.

"I'll see you soon," Juliet hung up, concentrating on Shawn. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. Not dizzy anymore. But oddly romantic."

Juliet smiled despite herself. "The rose petals… the weekend getaway… it was all a great idea. So thoughtful. I wish…"

"I know."

"Popcorn and a movie…"

"And I wish those had been my ideas. Nope… I got as far as the rose petals and wine. He wanted to recreate the Scream opening. You need popcorn for that." Shawn shivered. "I went outside to get my bags from the car after setting up the bedroom. He hit me over the head…"

"So he was in the room before I got here."

"There could be prints."

"Mrs. Mather might have seen him."

Shawn's eyes grew wide. "I don't think she will be a reliable witness."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because we didn't work out very well for a reenactment. You're not predictable or stupid enough. There has to be a victim in the first ten minutes of a slasher…"

"Are you saying…?"

"Mrs. Mather is probably hanging from the oak tree in the front yard."

"But I shot him—how could he…"

"He's not working alone."

"Did you just spoil the end of the movie for me?" the sirens screeched, and the gravel churned. The cops and the EMT's were here. Back up was arriving, too. Lassiter had informed them of just how serious this was…

"Are you really planning on watching that movie now?" Shawn winced.

"Maybe not…"

The front door was suddenly kicked open, and Lassiter was barging through, gun at ready, with several local cops trailing in behind him looking as if they had seen a ghost.

Through the open door, Juliet looked at the green yard over their shoulders. She fought bile rising in her throat.

The EMT's brought in a stretcher. Lassiter was barking out instructions to the cops, despite being completely out of his jurisdiction. He even managed to beat them to the door. Typical Carlton. Cops were fanning out, searching the house, crawling over the yard, like ants. Two came around and began to examine the evidence on the other side of the French doors.

Juliet was momentarily paralyzed, terror flooding her veins. It was loud. It was busy. There were people everywhere, and yet she felt more afraid than when it was just her versus the Ghostface.

Mrs. Mather was hanging by her neck, the rope tied to the lowest branch of the largest oak tree in the yard. Knife wounds from her mouth to her navel had opened her up, spilling her insides, bloodied and steaming.

Someone shut the front door, cutting Juliet off from the sight.

"O'Hara," Lassiter finally caught her attention, pulling her away from Shawn so that the paramedics could get to him. Shock taking over, Juliet watched numbly as Shawn began to rapid-fire completely nonsense answers to the paramedic's questions.

"Who is the current president of the United States?"

"I'm a psychic, what if I told you who will be president NEXT year, instead?"

"O'HARA!"

Juliet turned and walked into Lassiter's embrace. He had thrown open his arms to try and get her attention, and she pretended he just wanted a hug.

"Oh, okay, we're hugging, fine," Carlton responded with resign.

"I don't want to do this, not again," Juliet said, slowly.

"It's going to be okay, partner. We're going to nail this slimy bastard."

_Through the skull, _Juliet thought, with a wrath so quiet and still that the idea of revenge felt as peaceful as falling asleep.

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**Please review! I'm really excited about this story! **


	2. The Iconic Opening - Take II

**How to Solve a Slasher Flick in Three Sequels**

**By Pippin Strange**

* * *

**Summary: Everything you love about Wes Craven's Scream Quadrilogy comes to life in the Psych universe. When grisly murders occur with strange resemblance to the Scream movies, Shawn and the gang must survive not one, but four comedic slasher films to uncover the killer. Rated T for language, and graphic violence.**

* * *

**Contains spoilers for all four Scream movies.**

* * *

Chapter Two

The Iconic Opening – Take 2

_Shawn's POV_

* * *

"Let me explain to you how this went down," I said, folding my hands together deftly and staring at my chocolate audience bookended by two blue-eyed beauties—only one of which was my girlfriend.

Gus, Lassie, and Jules stared at me, open-faced and ready to be blown away by the story.

"I planned a nice, romantic weekend for Juliet and myself, just us, no one around, plenty of snuggling and wine and canoodling…"

"I think we can skip the foreplay," Lassiter said grimly.

Juliet smacked herself in the forehead, silently begging mother earth to open a new pit for herself to crawl into. If Gus could have paled with embarrassment, he'd be whiter than me.

"I think you mean prologue," Gus corrected hastily.

"I've heard it both ways," Lassiter replied.

"I skip nothing," I announced loudly. "Shut up and listen up. This is my official statement, you know." I paused. "Can we take out Lassie's interruptions? They're not very PG…"

"Who says a statement has to be PG?" Lassie exclaimed.

"If I've learned anything from Walt Disney, it's keeping things PG," I answered.

"Until Pirates of the Caribbean broke the trend in 2003," Gus corrected again, "Even the horror films Disney tried to make in the 80s were PG."

"All Disney films are horror films," Lassie said. "Talking chipmunks and pink elephants and the rest of that acid-trip-induced ridiculousness…"

"Will you please go on, Shawn?" Juliet interjected. "If we bicker like this, we'll be in here for hours."

"That's the idea," I said, "They want to keep me overnight for observation, and I'd rather you all stayed and had a slumber party—if we wait till they lock up the hospital you'll just have to stay."

"It's a hospital, not a museum," Gus informed me loftily, "It doesn't lock up on a 9 pm timer and trap everyone inside. They'll be kicked out as soon as visiting hours are over."

"Actually, technically, I _can_ stay," Juliet said, rather sheepishly. "I'm authorizing police protection for Shawn."

"The Chief authorized police protection for him but not for you?" Lassiter cried, affronted. "No offense, Spencer, but I can't help but feel the attempted-murder thing was just collateral damage—I think O'Hara was the real target."

"You have not seen the movies either," I was twice as affronted. "We were both collateral damage. The first victims are never the real target _nor_ the main characters."

Lassiter glared at me, then turned and addressed Juliet as if the conversation hadn't just happened. "The Chief authorized police protection for him?" he repeated, leaving off the second part.

"No. I am."

"You can't…"

"It's unofficial. I want to stay here because I don't want to leave him alone. I will tell the hospital that I _have _to stay. They don't have to know the order didn't come from the Chief."

"You know that's right," Gus grinned rather evilly.

"Guys, can we focus?" I said. "I'm about to lay down _exactly _what happened and what we're looking for."

Lassiter whipped a small pen out of his front pocket and clicked it. Juliet slyly handed him a tiny notepad before he could realize he had absolutely nothing to write on except for the palm of his hand or my forehead.

"I got a call from Mrs. Mather downstairs, letting me know that I had left my headlights on."

Gus _tsked _as if I had keyed the Blueberry.

"Gus, don't be an outdated laugh track from the fifties—I didn't _actually _leave my headlights on."

"The car had been tampered with," Lassie informed us. "But, unfortunately, no prints. Just—blood."

"Blood?" Gus repeated slowly.

Lassiter glanced accusingly at me. "We were pretty excited that we had a positive match until this _ugly_ mug popped up on the computer."

"I'm sorry, did you save your bathroom selfies on the SBPD server again?" I said.

"It was _his _blood smear on the car," Lassiter corrected himself without denying the presence of likely bathroom selfies. "The match was Spencer's."

"I went out to check my car," I continued, "and when I got close enough, Ghostface hit me on the back of the head—knocked me into the car—punched me a few more times—and weirdly enough, gave me a few knicks with the knife in the chest and torso… but that's just because in the movie, Steve was _way _more injured than I was. He just wanted me to look bloody enough for Juliet."

Juliet was frowning deeply. "We're dealing with a real psycho…"

"A movie-maven! Someone who finally snaps and can't draw the line between film and reality anymore," Gus added.

"You all know the rest," I said. "Juliet saved my ass… and the rest of my good-looking…assets."

"Thank God you were there and only played along to a point," Gus praised her, but Juliet didn't seem to appreciate any of the attention.

"We got lucky this time," she said. "But if he's really playing by the rules of a slasher film, we'll have to figure out the next step before he does. Assuming it's a 'he', of course."

"Most likely, yes," I said. I looked up at the white ceiling. "SPOILER ALERT!" I shouted.

Lassiter looked up, too. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Big brother is always watching," I said eerily. I like to break a fourth wall whenever I can, it's like pretending to be on the Office. "Okay—so here's how the film works. The next person he's going to go after is a girl, probably a teenager or a young adult, someone who is involved with the police force _or _has a past with them somehow. He might let himself get caught but we might not be able to hold him. But our killer is going to have some messed up past making him act out—and here's the clincher—it's a boyfriend of the main character. We're looking for our Billy Laedis."

"You mean Billy Loomis," Gus had an unusually low survival rate for the blood vessels around his eyebrows. Probably from too many 'disapproving' glances. "Laedis is from Shutter Island."

"No, that was Leonardo," I said, "Leonardo DiCapricorn."

"It's the _character _name. Leonardo and…" Gus suddenly glanced at the ceiling, slightly paranoid about the big brother I had pointed out. "Laedis is a _character's name. _Billy _Loomis _was the boyfriend of Nev Campbell's character."

"Didn't you say we weren't the main characters?" Juliet asked, rather hopefully.

"Only in the first act—the iconic opening. I'm afraid we _might _be the main characters from here on out," I responded. "Since, after all, we survived."

"I just know I'm not the lead," Gus said, as if trying to comfort Juliet with this information. "One, those slasher films never have a black lead. Two, lead's best friend always gets taken out in the second or third act, leaving the hero stunned that he had even begun to suspect 'em for a second, only to realize—too late—their best friend wasn't the killer after all."

"I have faith in you, Gus," I said.

"I'know!" he replied, with extra swag.

"So our suspects are anyone that you or O'Hara have dated?" Lassiter looked like he needed a short stay in the hospital, too—but for his mental health.

"My list is significantly shorter than Shawn's," Juliet replied smoothly.

"OKAY," I exclaimed, "Let's remember that it takes a baker's dozen of women to _barely _fill a milliliter of the Juliet-shaped void in everyone's love life."

"That's kind of sweet," Juliet stood, leaned over, and kissed me.

"I'll be taking Guster with me," Lassiter stood too.

"Kisses?" I held out my arms.

Lassiter slipped the pen and notebook, which I think may have sported a doodle of Marlowe in the bath towel, into his front pocket. "Get some rest."

Gus looked a little worried. "Where are we going, exactly?"

"My place. If O'Hara thinks she can authorize police protection without the Chief's approval, _I _plan on showing her that _two _can play at this game. You'll stay with me for your own protection and she'll see that you can't just authorize shit whenever you want."

"But," Gus said, "If the point is to prove a point about playing by the rules, why break the exact same rule to the prove the point?!"

"It's called being a _partner, _Guster. I would have thought you and Spencer would get that by now." He straightened his jacket. "Goodnight, O'Hara."

"Goodnight, Carlton. Gus."

"Goodnight, Jules, goodnight, Shawn. You make sure those windows are locked good and tight, okay?"

"We're on the fourth floor."

"Trapeze artists are not eliminated off my list of suspects."

"I don't remember dating a trapeze artist."

"You didn't—I did. I'm not taking any chances that our killer is playing by New Movie Rules."

"New Movie Rules?"

"A hell of a lotta diversity just for the _sake _of it. I ain't putting my life on the traditional rules of films that like to kill off as many as possible just to keep corn syrup companies in business!"

"You'll be fine—you'll be with Lassie!"

"Said Timmy to the well right before, you know," Gus whistled to indicate falling, followed by a crunchy plop sound. "Anyway. Hang tight."

"You too, bro." I waved forlornly. Juliet closed the hospital door after them, and after a pause, dragged a chair in front of it.

"Don't be worried," I said quietly. "Everything's going to be fine, Juliet!"

When Juliet turned and looked at me, her eyes were just a wee bit shiny. "We haven't had a moment alone yet," she said stoically.

"Oh, come _here, _you weeping willow," I said, holding out my arms. She hesitated, then came to the bedside again, leaning down and hugging me gingerly. "Okay, seriously, I'm not hurt that bad," I said. "It's the head that's the problem. If I hadn't been hit in the head so hard, I wouldn't even _have _to stay overnight. The knife wounds are nothing but scratches. You can put some weight into this, it's fine."

She did not need a second invitation. She tucked her toes behind her heels, slipped out of her shoes, and climbed onto the bed with me. She lay her head on my chest, allowing me to wrap both arms around her and tuck my chin over her hair. She stuffed her cold toes under my legs and put one arm across my middle, the other held against her chest. We fit too perfectly, her and I. It should be so easy for two totally different people to cuddle up so naturally.

"A few hours ago I was wondering if I'd ever, ever be able to do this again," I confessed into her hair, kissing the blond curls. "This is relieving, to say the least."

"I was, too," she said. She sighed, and yawned. "Tomorrow," she said sleepily, "I want to bring Declan in for questioning."

"But he seems like such a nice guy…"

"And Gina Repach."

"Y'know we were never really 'together'…"

"I want to look into their eyes and see if they were capable of something as messed up as this."

"Duly noted."

The door to the room opened to the outside, and the chair leaning on it fell backwards into the hallway. A nurse stood there, looking at us with a horrified expression, and looked down at the chair.

My chest was shaking as I was trying not to laugh.

"What was that?" Juliet hissed, her eyes popping open.

"The sound of your chair falling out of the room," I snickered.

"Oh, damn, I _am _exhausted," Juliet sighed. "I should have noticed the door didn't even open the right way for that chair-trick to work!"

"That's why it's so funny!"

"That means the nurse is standing there, isn't she?" Juliet groaned. She was really comfortable—she really didn't want to get up.

The nurse slowly nudged the chair inside the room with her foot, and then, with a finger pressed to her lips, let the door slip close. I could hear the sounds of her shoes slapping the linoleum as she walked away.

"We've got permission to continue on, interrupted," I said, kissing her again.

"We'll pretend the case doesn't exist until morning."

"Unless…" I paused. "Hmmm…"

"What?"

"It's nothing. Not till morning!"

"_What?!"_

"It's just… the next person he goes after will be someone with ties to the police. A younger girl."

"Even if it was the main character in the movie, it's safe to assume it isn't us this time, right?"

"I think so… but…"

"But what?"

"Didn't Chief Vick's niece just get into town last night for the internship?"

A pause.

"I'm calling her right now."

…

The next morning, Juliet and I rolled into the SBPD parking lot at 9:05 AM, not more than ten minutes after they released me from the hospital. The only thing that was obvious about our distress from the night before were the dark circles under our eyes, the bandage stuck to the back of my head and a few stitches on my lip.

We walked up the sidewalk, somewhat surprised at the amount of press waiting outside the doors. They noticed us before we noticed them.

"Can you comment on the incident that occurred last night at the bed and breakfast?" they all shouted a variety of the same question, shoving microphones and camera lenses near us. Juliet, looking very professional and angsty behind her aviators, grasped my arm with one hand and used the other to part the press sea.

"No comments, let us through, please," she said, with a claustrophobic sort of grimace. A cameraman I had seen before—mid-forties, average beige complexion, light blond—tried to wave me down and catch my specific attention. "Hey—hey Shawn—John Gregg, here. Can you give us any thoughts?"

"Not today, buddy, I'm sorry," I said shrugging. The movements caught my mild injuries and tugged them uncomfortably. I was going to be really achy for a day or two.

"Is it true that there was a jail break yesterday morning?" John continued, unhindered. "Did you apprehend an escaped criminal at the bed and breakfast?"

"A what?" Juliet whispered to me as we got to the front doors as quickly as possible. "A jail break?"

"Apparently, we missed something… I don't really think we have a Cotton character in this story."

"Cotton?"

"The one Sydney put in jail? No one suspects the person who killed her mother is the same committing these new murders because they believe the 'killer', Cotton, is in jail."

"Someone named Cotton is in jail?" all the reporters began to repeat, jotting things down or checking batteries on their recording devices.

"Don't quote me.. quote Mr. Craven! I exclaimed. "Like a stately black bird known as a raven, only more cowardly, which is different than a crow, of course... because of the 'four versus five feathers on the wing'—but that's a matter of a _pinion._"

The press all slowly stopped taking notes, bewildered.

"Perfect," Juliet muttered, "That will keep them occupied."

We marched up the steps and into the police department.

…

"Congratulation, Spencer," said the Chief as soon as we were seated in her office. "My home was very nearly a crime scene last night—but O'Hara's phone call came just in time."

"Typical," I sighed. "And your niece?"

"She's fine. Someone in a Ghostface mask, like the one you and O'Hara described from the bed and breakfast, broke into my home last night while my husband and I were out. He chased my niece around a little—she managed to lock herself in the bathroom—it might have been too late except that myself and an officer were already on the way, thanks to O'Hara's warning. The perp must have slipped out the back door. They've been combing for prints all morning, but…"

"They wear all black and that includes gloves," I interjected. "Our guy had a busy, busy night last night…"

"Poor Cindy," Juliet said. "She was probably so scared."

Chief Vick glanced out the windows of her office. We followed her gaze.

Cindy Thompson, daughter of Vick's brother (who, much to her relief, was _not _in any kind of law enforcement like her taller, bossier sister) was sitting at Lassiter's desk, borrowing an officer's coat and looking a little worse for wear. She probably hadn't slept all night. She bore a _little _resemblance to Sydney Prescott, but not enough for anyone to stop her and scream "MISS CAMPBELL?"

"So why is the press buzzing about a jail break?" Juliet asked.

"Oddly enough, we're not even sure if it is a jail break, or if it's a complete failure of the system," Chief Vick sat at her desk and pulled a folder open. "Do you remember Howie and Eileen Tolkin?"

I jumped to my feet. "THE PROM KING AND QUEEN? From my high school reunion?" I staggered. I shouldn't have jumped up so fast. _Still so, so sore. _I fell back into my chair. "What about them?" I smiled, calmly.

Juliet rolled her eyes at me.

"I'm sure you remember that the court system has been very _muddled _and it took a long time for them to take the murder charges seriously, considering that their compatriot could have easily jumped from the roof and their car accident could be involuntary manslaughter…"

"But I proved it was murder," I exclaimed.

"Technically, yes, and they confessed, but a criminal can always change things in court processes. Their lawyer urged them to plea not guilty and say that their confession was a result of pressure and fear that their 'crazy classmate' would as soon shoot them if they didn't 'confess' for his idea of a perfect crime."

"Why wasn't I informed of this?"

"So far, it wasn't necessary. Their lawyer is, to put it kindly, rarely a winner. The evidence was stacked against them. You would be called when it was time to testify against them, not to defend yourself against potentially shooting them."

"So they'll still be in jail," I inferred.

"They _were _in jail. Their trial date kept getting postponed. And then—I don't know how—they set up a series of meetings with professionals in all manner of police work—psychoanalysts, swat, beat cops, detectives—and used their 'advise' for setting up their defense."

"They're desperate," said Lassiter, suddenly appearing at the door with Gus. "They think a couple of 'professional' opinions will get them a plea bargain."

"Somewhere in the mess," Chief Vick continued, "They were transferred to another facility and when they arrived, the paperwork accompanying them said that they were only on probation. So they were checked in, given the appointment time for a probation officer, and then they left the facility."

"Left? Just as easily as that?" Juliet asked.

"They let them go as if they were a couple of teenagers with a misdemeanor in defacing public property," Lassiter growled.

"Whoever switched their paperwork around while en-route to a new facility must be really, really good," Gus added.

"It's good to see you, buddy!" I exclaimed.

"You too!" Gus grinned.

"…Or someone on the inside," Chief Vick explained. "I _think _that somewhere in the line of advisees, someone was dirty and got them out."

"Chief, I'm sensing this whole thing is connected," I said convincingly.

"We're not so sure about that."

"Come on! A murderer and his foxy partner in crime escape from jail before they can be 'officially' convicted with murder and then myself, Juliet, and your niece almost get butchered the next night?"

"It's a lead, anyway, don't you think?" Lassie asked hopefully.

"Maybe." Chief Vick pointed at Lassiter. "See what you can dig up. Burton, Spencer, you're on the case—just—" she frowned at my bandaged head. "Take care of yourselves, and don't get in too deep. I have a feeling we're dealing with a very unique case."

"Righto, Cap'n," I said, saluting. I stood slowly and joined Gus at the doors. Juliet brushed past me, giving my arm a squeeze as she and Lassiter walked towards Chief Vick's niece.

"Now that we've got a lead," I said, "Let's go the opposite direction."

"What?" Gus asked. "Why would you go in the opposite of a lead?"

"Because that's not how these things work. We need to bring the killer to _us."_

"I don't WANT to bring the killer to us, Shawn."

"Come on. It'll be fun."

"No!"

"It's time to throw a party."

"I don't want to party."

"What's a teen slasher fic without the party and the booze that ends in a night of terror and a complete bloodbath?"

"Are you TRYING to get us killed?"

"I'm trying to nab the killer, we're bait!"

"This is not how it should be done. We're not in a movie."

"Sure, but the killer doesn't know that."

"I don't want to throw a party."

"Don't worry, I'll throw the party. I just need you to be there."

Juliet and Lassiter were having a depthy conversation with Cindy. She was answering their questions haltingly, looking scared with her lower lip trembling. She was approximately in her early twenties, sporting trendy clothes and rather complex-looking eyes.

"And I think we need to invite the niece."

"Just when I think you can't say anything worse than 'we're bait'," Gus sighed. "You say things like that. Look at her! The poor girl is traumatized!"

"I think she's rather enjoying the attention, look how dramatic she is," I said, pointing.

Cindy was hugging the officer's coat close around her shoulders while she talked to the detectives, her eyes swimming at all the right parts in her story.

"A girl after our own hearts," I said. "She's scared, sure, but deep down, she wants to be in on solving the case. Just wait. She won't say no. I'm sensing someone doesn't just want to intern as a SBPD receptionist in human resources—she wants to play detective."

* * *

**Thanks for reading, everyone. Let me know what you think. Sorry it's more of a filler chapter… the bloodbath will continue in chapter three :) **

**Also I was kind of asleep... and writing simultaneously... sleep-writing... when I wrote that 'Disney is PG' part of their bickering, and the bit about the crow vs. raven wordplay. **

**It was so weird but strangely in-character so when I read it later when I was awake, I left it in. I don't even know how that works. Like, my brain shut off, my eyes were shut too, but apparently I kept writing the conversation I was imagining in my head, but I thought I was dreaming, but it was all typed when I woke up. I used to do that in class, too... back in university I'd wake up in class and find my notebook full of jibberish notes and words that didn't make any sense. A Psychic trance, maybe? ;) ehehe. **

**so yeah. Hope you enjoyed! **


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